


To See It In All Its Tainted Glory (and still to love it)

by allonsy_gabriel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Asexual Relationship, Attempt at Humor, Denial, Domestic, Feelings, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Internal Monologue, Love Confessions, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Possibly Pretentious Writing, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Two Idiots Try and Figure It Out, sappy bullshit, that's all this really is, what is love?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:11:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: The world continued to not change. Everything was completely, utterly, normal--the sun rose, the sun set, the earth spun at roughly 1600 kilometers per hour. And yet, at a small antique bookstore in London, everything had, somehow, shifted.There was no discussion, no conversation, no moment where they sat down and said, “I think something’s just a tad different between us, now, and we ought to address it.”But, of course, things were different. Two people (or cosmic beings of ethereal/occultish intent) could hardly go around wearing each other’s skin for a while and then expect things to just stay the same.





	To See It In All Its Tainted Glory (and still to love it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sanna_Black_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/gifts).



> For Ring, who got me into this mess. I hope this makes you happy :)
> 
> This is, in fact, my first Good Omens fic, so if you feel like something is Amiss, then please understand I'm just now getting my feet underneath me, and mistakes are bound to happen.
> 
> Enjoy!

Aziraphale could pinpoint the exact moment he realised his…  _ feelings _ for Crowley, even if he couldn't  _ exactly  _ name what those feelings were.

“Just a little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley had said, handing Aziraphale well-used leather bag.

Aziraphale thought he was going to fall at that moment. He’d actually thought he felt the heat of hell licking up his face until he realised it was just a blush.

Either way.

A lot had happened since that moment in the rubble of that church, and yet, nothing had changed. Nothing that really mattered, at least.

They’d switched back and gone out to lunch just as usual, and when Aziraphale had lifted his glass  _ to the world _ he knew that, deep at the heart of him, he meant  _ to us. To this strange, wonderful togetherness we share. _

They’d gone back to Aziraphale’s shop for a glass of wine and polite conversation, just as they had a hundred times.

And maybe there was a  _ slight _ difference in the atmosphere around them, the  _ barest hint _ of a change, like first editions of  _ Treasure Island _ appearing on the counter, but neither angel nor demon acknowledged it.

***

The world continued to not change. Everything was completely, utterly, normal--the sun rose, the sun set, the earth spun at roughly 1600 kilometers per hour. And yet, at a small antique bookstore in London, everything had, somehow, shifted.

There was no discussion, no conversation, no moment where they sat down and said, “I think something’s just a tad different between us, now, and we ought to address it.”

But, of course, things  _ were _ different. Two people (or cosmic beings of ethereal/occultish intent) could hardly go around wearing each other’s skin for a while and then expect things to just stay the same.

It was an odd thing to describe, the way it had felt, the way it had left Aziraphale feeling once it was all said and done.

Mostly because there had been so  _ many _ feelings.

To look down and see Crowley’s hands, to look in the mirror and see Crowley’s face, to feel the pop of joints and contraction of muscles that weren’t his was…

Intimate.

A line had been crossed--no, a line had been  _ destroyed _ , the wall between them utterly demolished, and yet they still went along, acting as if they were in two separate rooms.

_ Doing their best _ to act as if they were in two separate rooms, actually, because it was impossible to for an  _ entire wall _ to go missing and no one notice.

Sometimes, things slipped. Sometimes, Aziraphale would see Crowley peering over the top of his sunglasses and he’d remember how it’d all looked, the world through those serpentine eyes. Colours sharper, edges blurrier. He’d remember the way there’d been a sort of  _ emptiness _ in the pit of his stomach, something that seemed so ingrained in Crowley’s being that it held onto the body even when the mind and spirit were no longer present.

That thing that only seemed full when--

Well.

Nevermind that.

There were other things, too, that came with the wall between two people (concentrations of infinite light/masses of unfathomable darkness) being broken, blown to smithereens like a London church full of Nazis. There were things Aziraphale knew now, things that seemed to have stuck to Crowley's skin and transferred over like cat hair or glitter, clinging to Aziraphale's very being without him ever asking. These things weren't his to know, and yet there they were, lingering around his consciousness like a stubborn group of particularly pesky teens that loitered outside his bookshop on the weekends.

Of course, it hadn’t helped that everything was so  _ new  _ again. He’d barely had his body back for a few hours before handing it over. In those first few days after the end of the world, Crowley had spent just as much time in Aziraphale’s incorporation as Aziraphale himself had. It had been  _ theirs _ , used by each in equal measure.

 

Aziraphale shook his head to clear it as he dropped a few marshmallows in one cup of cocoa and about half a bag in the other.

"Crowley, dear," he said as he made his way downstairs and  into the back room where, as was becoming more and more common, Crowley was draped across the sofa like that one--French?--woman in the film about the boat (Aziraphale wasn't at all up to date on films--the last time he'd been to the cinema, he and Crowley had been asked to leave early because they couldn't stop snickering at Pola Negri's eyebrows). "I was thinking we'd try Thai for dinner tonight. There's this lovely little place that opened just down the road, they've got these curry pastries that sound absolutely scrumptious."

Crowley grinned at him, a sly sort of thing Aziraphale remembered trying desperately to get right. "And a table for two, miraculously open?"

"Funnily enough, I believe they just received a seven o'clock reservation for two under the name of a Mr. A.Z. Fell."

Crowley laughed, his head tipping even farther back against the armrest of the lounge.

Aziraphale was struck, not for the first time, by how ridiculously  _ fond _ he was.

He laughed along for a moment before remembering the mugs in his hands. "Here. Extra marshmallows and all," he said, handing Crowley the cup. "Honestly, dear, I don't even know how you taste the chocolate underneath all that."

Crowley just shrugged and brought the mug up to his lips.

Aziraphale smiled to himself, eyes flicking from Crowley to the mug of cocoa to the floor and back up again. He carefully lowered himself down onto the cosy armchair next to the sofa, making sure not to spill a drop.

This was how the world would be, it seemed. The two of them in a single room, walking up to where the wall had been, but never taking that final step.

That was fine, Aziraphale conceded, at least within his own mind. Maybe not… maybe not ideal, but certainly not an  _ issue _ . They'd operated almost exactly like that for 6,000 years. And just being there, together, without the legions of heaven and hell breathing down their backs, well.

It was more than Aziraphale had ever even allowed himself to hope for.

***

Time, as it so often did,  _ passed _ .

It unfurled from days to weeks, from months to years, and somehow, through it all, the angel and the demon fell into something as uniquely human and mundane as a  _ routine _ .

They’d long since left London. The place was infested with memories, of burning bookshops and bandstands, and besides, what was the point of saving the world if you weren’t even going to  _ see _ all of it?

They’d traveled (together, of course) for a while. First to all the big, important places, and then, later, to the places where things were quiet and the world was allowed to rest.

Aziraphale liked those places best.

It made sense, then, that when they finally settled (still together--it would’ve been odd to part ways at that point, honestly) it would be in one of those quiet places.

There was a cottage in South Downs that had enough space for a library, and a garden large enough for any number of plants, of the house variety or otherwise.

Every morning, Aziraphale would wake early and put the kettle on just before starting up the percolator. He’d rummage through the refrigerator for a moment, searching for eggs and milk and whatnot, and once he found what he was looking for, he’d start on breakfast while Mozart or Chopin or any other assortment of classical music would play on the phonograph.

(Aziraphale had never once changed the record, but neither he nor the phonograph ever seemed to care.)

Crowley would stumble down from the bedroom an hour later, his glasses not yet on, shuffling along in his slippers and fluffy grey robe.

A decade and a half had passed since the Notpacolypse. They’d attended Newt and Anathema’s wedding, sent Adam gifts as he went off to university, each lit a candle as Shadwell was read the last rites of the Witch Finder Army. And still, Aziraphale would look over to Crowley and wonder, not if the demon knew (they both knew, and in fact, they both  _ knew _ ; knew the cold of Above and the heat of Below and the spaces between each others’ atoms), but if he  _ understood _ .

Things had, again, changed from those early days after the end of the world. The feelings had a name, now, a name that most definitely began with an  _ L _ , although the Greeks would have most likely described it with a word starting with an  _ A _ .

Aziraphale was also quite tired of beating around the bush, of settling in the grey area between  _ knowing  _ and  _ hoping _ .

 

He sat the pan of muffins (apple and cheddar, a recipe he’d learned from a delightful old woman who’d lived just down the way) down on the counter.

“Crowley, dear?”

“Yes, Angel?”

“You do know I love you, don’t you?”

The words are softer than he would’ve liked them to be.

Crowley raised his head from where he’d been looking at something on his smartphone (probably one of those blasted  _ mobile games _ or  _ social medias  _ he was so proud of).

“I--er--well,” he said, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. He cleared his throat. “I mean, yes,” he said, desperately casual, forced nonchalant. “You--comes with the whole  _ heavenly host _ thing, doesn’t it? Love for all creatures, big, small, or damned?” It sounded rehearsed, something said to a reflection over and over again in attempts to convince oneself of its truthfulness.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Because if there’s one thing we’ve learned from our experiences with my former colleagues, it’s that they’re just  _ bursting _ with love.”

Crowley’s jaw clicked shut for a moment. “Well,” he finally said. “I always did think you were a bit of an odd duck--”

“For Heaven’s sake, Crowley!” Aziraphale interrupted, suddenly fed up with the whole thing. “It’s been--it’s been  _ fifteen years _ , surely you aren’t  _ that  _ obtuse.”

“ _ I’m _ the obtuse one?” Crowley repeated back, apparently in great shock.

“ _ Yes! _ ” Aziraphale said (not shouted--he was  _ perfectly calm _ , an absolute picture of serenity). “I’ve hardly been  _ subtle _ !”

“Oh, I’m  _ sorry _ ,” Crowley snapped with a sneer. “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t  _ going too fast _ !”

“I--” Aziraphale began, but after a moment, he found he wasn’t sure what to say.

Crowley simply stared at him, arms crossed over his chest.

“Things were different, then,” Aziraphale eventually said. “I was--I didn’t know. Or, I knew, but I didn’t want to--to  _ admit _ . That I cared. About you. Loved you, even.”

For a moment, the kitchen was silent.

“Six thousand years,” Crowley said quietly. “Six  _ thousand _ years, and the whole time, I--Sometimes, I thought, maybe. Rome. Paris. When you gave me that holy water. I thought,  _ maybe _ he... maybe you… but you  _ didn’t _ , and so  _ I _ didn’t, and then all  _ that _ happened, and I thought--well, I knew. I knew  _ you _ knew, but I…  _ damn it all _ , Aziraphale, what was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale replied. “Something.”

Crowley scoffed. “‘Something’ is a two-way street, you know.”

“I wasn’t ever sure,” Aziraphale argued. He still wasn’t sure, actually. From all that Crowley was saying, from all that he  _ wasn’t  _ saying. “Nothing ever changed.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Of course it didn’t, you bloody idiot,” he said. “‘S been like this since the fucking garden.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment. “The point still stands,” he stated evenly. “I love you. Not just as--as a member of  _ the world _ or whatever other ridiculous nonsense you might be thinking of, but you, Crowley, specifically.”

“I--”

“And it’s--it’s alright if you don’t feel the same, I don’t expect you to--it’s all rather complicated, anyway, but it’s true, and I felt that you should know.”

Crowley blinked at him twice. “Angel,” he said quietly. “If after all of this you still aren’t sure whether or not I--how I  _ feel _ about you, then you really are the obtuse one.”

Aziraphale smiled.

 

Later, there would be more conversations, over what  _ love _ meant and what difference it could possibly, eventually make on whatever it was that they were doing. There’d be long, quasi-drunk philosophical discussions over what  _ love _ in human terms even  _ was _ , once you got rid of all the physical bits (neither of them were all that interested in the physical bits, anyway). Some things would, inevitably, change. It wasn’t uncommon at all to find Aziraphale leaning against Crowley on the couch as rain hit the windows, or for the demon to lay himself on the angel’s lap as Aziraphale read, or for their hands to wind together as they made their way down the street.

In the end, Aziraphale thought as he looked back on the world and the history and the  _ togetherness _ of it all, things  _ had  _ changed.

All of it, and everything.

And nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you thought and, if it sounds like something you'd enjoy, feel free to ask me questions/send me messages/absolutely Lose Your Shit With Me on tumblr @allonsy-gabriel!


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